by S D Smith
Picket glanced at Uncle Wilfred, frowned, then looked to Heather. She nodded. “Okay, Perk. But please, my friend, take care of them.”
“My place beside you, brother,” he said, embracing Picket.
Heather gave Picket detailed instructions. Then she draped on her satchel, kissed her uncle gently on the forehead, rose, and wrapped Picket in a long embrace. She felt his tears on her neck. She squeezed him tight.
Then, without saying another word, she broke the embrace and turned, hurrying away.
Perkinson ran to catch up with her, and she heard the sounds of the others slowly lifting Uncle Wilfred.
“I’m so sorry,” Perkinson said, as he caught up. “It’s an awful thing to lose a friend.”
She turned on him, anger flashing in her eyes. “A friend?” she said. “A friend? I have not just lost a friend, Perkinson. We have lost—the whole world has lost!—a great and noble rabbit. We have lost our hope. The Green Ember is snuffed out, and the new world will never flourish now as it should have. Smalls is dead. Hope is dead.”
Chapter Thirty-One
MANY WOUNDS
Picket’s insides felt like sawdust and ashes. He fought a private battle within himself against a foe more terrible than any bird. Somehow, he carried on, holding back the grief, the surging guilt.
It took him and his companions several hours to get Uncle Wilfred properly situated back at Halfwind, and Picket was reluctant to leave him. He was still very bad off, and the nurse would not say if he would recover. Yet Uncle Wilfred seemed to be regaining a little focus after drinking the tonic Heather prescribed.
“Picket,” he said, his eyes fluttering open. “Picket, my lad. Thank you. Thank you.” He smiled for a moment, then his face contorted as memory seemed to return. “Oh, no,” he said, tears starting in his eyes again. “Oh, no.”
“Uncle,” Picket said, leaning over him and clasping his hand, “what happened?”
This was the question Picket had been terrified to ask. But he had to know.
“Folly, lad,” Uncle Wilfred said. He took an offered drink from a hovering nurse and went on. “Defying every wise advisor, Smalls was determined to go to the mining camp and liberate the slaves,” he said. “The camp was crawling with birds. Most of our team was carried off. The slaves, and I assume your father, all killed or carried off. All was chaos and woe. Smalls fought like Whitson himself, like his father, as heroic as ever I’ve seen a rabbit fight. But in the end, there were too many birds. He was run through and...carried off...limp as a string.”
Picket felt the words enter his ears and race like poison to his heart. He dropped Uncle Wilfred’s hand, suddenly afraid that by his touch he might infect his uncle, hastening his death. He felt like his hands were dirty, his presence toxic, that he had to get away from these rabbits before he ruined them all.
“What have I done?” he whispered, wiping his hands on his shirt. “It’s my fault. I’ve killed him.”
“No, no, son,” Uncle Wilfred said, wincing. “How can you say that? You weren’t there. I was there. I saw it all, and I could do nothing. It’s my fault, Picket, not yours.”
“Uncle, you tried to stop him doing it, and I’m certain you did all you could to save him,” Picket said, “but I begged him to do it.”
“You...you begged him to attack the camp?” Uncle Wilfred said, disbelieving. “You can’t have, Picket. You didn’t know. There’s no way—”
“I knew,” Picket said, shouting at the ceiling. “I knew! Smalls told me about the camp and he told me you all advised against it and,” he dug at his eyes, “I asked him to try anyway! I told him Heather would be devastated if she found out he hadn’t, which probably wasn’t even true. But I wanted them free. I wanted to see my father again. I wanted to save my mother, to keep my word to little Jacks. I made Smalls do it, and his death is on me. It’s my fault.”
Looking up, Picket saw that Uncle Wilfred’s face had frozen in a mask of grief. Glancing across at Cole and Jo, he read their astonished disapproval. Though they quickly looked away, he saw it. And in an awful way he savored it. He knew he deserved it. Uncle Wilfred sank back on his bed, his eyes closed and his face still set with pain.
Picket took it all in, the misery and guilt, rolling it around in his mouth like a fine wine. He stood, turning away from his uncle. Neither Jo nor Cole would meet his gaze. He had to leave, had to get as far from this place as he could. He walked to the door.
“Stop him!” Uncle Wilfred shouted as Picket made to dash out. Cole rushed to block the door, and Jo grabbed him from behind. Picket struggled intensely for a few moments, then finally relented. “Come back, Picket,” his uncle said, his words heavy with hurt, his voice cracking in his pain and weakness.
Picket let himself be led to his uncle’s bedside. He sat heavily on the chair beside the bed. His heart felt shredded to bits.
“I have lived with this same woe, my lad,” Uncle Wilfred said, placing his hand gently on Picket’s bowed head. “I was too slow to realize my brother’s treachery, and so Garten got to the old king, and Morbin committed his foulest crime. And I saw it, saw the result of my folly. Now I’ve seen the result of yours. Yes, yes,” he said, patting Picket’s head, “I agree that you were wrong. I see that your advice was bad and that you have some stock in the blame. But do not take it all. A prince will hear bad advice, and he must make his own choices.”
“But I put an unfair burden on him,” Picket said weakly. “I’m ashamed to say it, but I...I manipulated him.”
“Yes, that was wrong. And now the prince is gone. You should own this mistake, but you must not take credit for the enemy’s work. You didn’t capture innocent rabbits and hold them captive to work your mines. You didn’t murder Smalls’ father and leave him abandoned with an unimaginable burden. You didn’t leave him to die at Jupiter’s Crossing all those months ago. No, son. You are on the right side of this war. You were only on the wrong side of this advice. And the prince, this rabbit who was wise and bold, erred in taking it.”
“I can’t just forget this, Uncle.”
“You don’t have to, Picket. You should own your part. But you’ll have to do it quickly. Own it, and move forward. Today, a host of rabbits moves to fight the battle for which Smalls lived and died. Today, his enemies mass near a mountain where the princess, unaware of who she is, works in danger. You cannot spend weeks in self-indulgent misery as you once did. You cannot give in to your grief. You must carry on and bear the flame.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You must. To bear the flame means more than only holding on to the fire kindled in the Green Ember’s rising. It means to bear the fatal flames of the enemy, to bear up under the scorching heat of these hateful days.”
“I can’t bear it.”
“There is no other way, Picket. Would you stay here with the aged, with the mothers and their children? Would you lie in bed with the lame and sick while your brothers fight in the field, while Heather and Emma work in Morbin’s shadow?”
“Of course not,” he said, anger flashing in his eyes.
“Then rouse yourself, lad,” Uncle Wilfred growled. “Many wounds will bloom in this battle, and you will carry yours inside you. But carry them and fight on. Fight for Smalls, for Emma, for Heather and the whole wounded world. Carry your pain and let it fire you in the fight. Bear the burden and bear the flame.”
Picket nodded and blinked back tears. “I will go, Uncle.”
“Fight for me, Picket,” Wilfred said, his cough returning. The nurse, eyes worried, coughed quietly. Cole came to stand beside Picket.
“We have to go, Pick,” he said.
Picket nodded. “I love you, Uncle. I will try to make you proud.”
“You already have, son,” he said. “You and Heather must be for Emma what I have been for Smalls. I lay that charge on you, son, though I know it’s heavy. You and Heather must save Emma, preserve the princess for the Mended Wood. I so badly wish I could come. I know the od
ds are bad.”
“We may have a chance,” Picket said, “with Bleston on our side.”
Uncle Wilfred’s eyes widened, and his hand closed around Picket’s, squeezing tightly. That motion was the last sign of his strength. He sank back. The nurse rushed to his side and examined him. Picket stepped away, frightened.
“He needs rest,” the nurse said. “He’s had a terrible ordeal. I’m afraid you’ll have to go,” she said. “Please!”
“Will he be okay?” Picket asked, backing toward the door.
“I don’t know,” she said.
* * *
Many hours later, as the sun touched the tops of the far mountains and bathed the sky in purple and peach, Picket, Cole, and Jo made the last turn in the road and saw the sprawling war camp. This was only half the army, as it had divided according to Bleston’s scheme. Picket had thought of going straight to Cloud Mountain, to be at Emma’s side. But he needed to tell Captains Frye and Helmer about what had happened to the prince. And he had made a promise that morning to a young soldier named Lallo, to fight with him on the field. Besides, he wanted, needed, to fight. This was Picket’s part, to join Captains Frye and Helmer and the bulk of the Halfwind force, to help lead the Fowlers into war.
Picket scanned the camp and saw soldiers huddled around fires, talking softly and preparing to bed down. They were settling, hoping to find some rest in the shadow before the blaze of battle that awaited them at dawn.
Picket saw Heyward, blue robe swishing as he bent over a mess of metal fittings and wooden rods, whittling on the ends of the rods with his knife. He moved to lock down a connection, then reached for a bolt of black cloth. He unrolled it and squinted, frowning at the components before him with a cocked head. After counting out something on his fingers, he drew out his shears and went to work on the thick fabric.
Picket smiled at his friend, though Heyward couldn’t see him. Always tinkering. Picket wanted to go to him, to talk to his old friend by the fire while he worked away at sunset. But he had more urgent business.
Picket found Frye and Helmer at the central fire, going over the war plan with their lieutenants.
“Lieutenant Longtreader,” Captain Frye said. “I was beginning to wonder if you planned on missing the battle altogether.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Picket said. “I was delayed by—” He was unsure how to proceed.
Helmer caught Picket’s eye, recognized his baneful look. “Thank you, lieutenants,” he said to the gathered officers. “I think you all know the plan well enough by now. Try to get some sleep, bucks. Dawn will break on us, and then—well, then we will break on our enemy.”
“Yes, sir!” the officers said. They gathered their things and, nodding to Picket, left.
“Sit, Picket,” Captain Frye said. “You’re exhausted, son.”
Picket sat, his head down.
“What’s happened?” Helmer asked, grave and attentive.
“The worst,” Picket said.
“Prince Smalls?” Frye asked.
Picket nodded.
Chapter Thirty-Two
CLANGS AND WHISPERS
Heather and Perkinson, accompanied by five stout soldiers, entered through the misty mouth of Cloud Mountain’s hidden cave. Heather hadn’t been here in months, and she longed for the welcoming aromas of the Savory Den. But when she entered the large room, there was no one there. It was dark and silent, with not a solitary torch to see by. She remembered good meals among friends, laughter and love, and hard moments as well. She thought of how Chef Gort always seemed to hang around until someone complimented his food. She remembered the day Kyle had stood up to Captain Frye. So much had happened since then.
The guards in green led them on, through the secret wall, down the passage and to the stairs.
“We know our way from here,” Perkinson said, nodding to the Forest Guards. He thanked the accompanying soldiers and told them they could report to the Cloud Mountain officers to be reassigned for the battle. They bowed and left, accompanied by the guards in green.
“Have you been here before?” Heather asked.
“Yes, a few times.”
“I’m going to find Emma,” she said.
“Of course.” They’d been surrounded by soldiers for most of the journey, so they hadn’t spoken about Emma’s true identity.
“You will keep Emma’s secret?” she asked.
“I will,” he said.
“What will you do?”
“I’ll make myself useful, Heather. I want to get back down to the valley, but I may only make it to King Bleston’s forces on the mountainside.”
Heather frowned and turned for the steps. “I have to go. Thanks for coming with me, Perk. If you see Picket on the field, please look out for him.”
“I’ll do my part,” he said. “Take care of yourself, Heather. This battle will shake many things loose. I hope you’re flexible enough to adapt.”
She started up the steps, then turned. “What do you mean?”
But Perkinson was gone.
She frowned, then bounded up the stairs three at a time. Reaching the top, she was surprised to see King’s Garden undisturbed. Glancing briefly at Lighthall, she hurried along the path, past the statues of King Whitson and Captain Blackstar, and down the long passage to Hallway Round.
Passing through the open door, she heard the humming noise of rabbits in motion. At the end of the passage, she entered the large stone hallway. Rabbits were bustling in and out of the two large doors to her left, while anxious guards stood watch over the barrels of blastpowder. There used to be only one. Now five wooden barrels, bound with hoops of brass, stood stacked and ready to be blown in the event of an invasion.
She was staring at the commotion, spotting here and there a familiar face, when rabbits began to notice her. They bowed, waved, and hurried on their way. Some pointed and whispered, eyes suddenly alight. But none stopped. Everyone had a task, and the community was churning with purpose.
“Where’s Doctor Zeiger?” she asked one of the guards.
“Hello, Miss Longtreader,” he said, bowing. “The doctors are setting up in the great hall.”
“Thank you.” She moved on, lingering for a moment beside the door to the foggy porch. Would she find Mrs. Weaver out there? She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t have time now. She opened the door to the great hall and walked inside.
The hall had been altered. The stalls and shops, the makeshift market, all were replaced by a functioning factory of war. The doctors and nurses made use of a large portion of the hall, prepping their cures and staging their stations and patients’ bedding. In the alcoves along the walls, fletchers made arrows and coopers prepped barrels, and the smithy rang with the clang and shatter of hammered steel as swords and other weapons were forged. Sparks splashed around a dozen rabbits in black as they beat at blades or pumped the bellows. Heather hurried to the hospital area and, seeing a familiar face, smiled.
“Hello, Doctor Zeiger,” she said.
“Miss Longtreaders! To be sure it’s you being yourself and not any somebody other,” Doctor Zeiger said. “Coming to help, you is? We’s needing every hand we can take, but I thinked you were battlefield medic for Crazy Helmer’s big fancy Fowler squad?”
“I got, um, reassigned here,” she said. “I need to find Emma.”
“Oh, Doctor Emma’s being very help to mine as we preparate good job for bad job of war.”
“It looks like you’re doing all you can, Doc,” she said, frowning at the loud clatter from the smithy.
“It’s big medicine this music we get for our hospital, yes?”
“It’s awful.”
“Mine think hammer heads might stop after we get first batch of wound-hurt rabbits here, but Lord Rake say that army still have to weapon make and weapon fix, so we get big-time happy clitter-clatter-bang-brack all days, all nights.”
“I hope you get some relief,” she said. “Please excuse, me, Doc. I have to find Emma.”
He
pointed to the station where Emma stood, directing some other doctors in how to prepare the tonic. One took notes while she mixed ingredients from a table full of jars. Another listened intently while crushing something green with a pestle. Heather saw Heyna Blackstar among those hovering near Emma, her scarred face alert and actively scanning the hall. Doctor Zeiger went on. “She is make good medicine, our Emma. Better her work is than hundred new clingy-clang swords.”
“There was always more to her than any of us knew,” she said. Smiling at Doctor Zeiger, she turned and walked toward Emma.
“What are you doing here?” Emma called. “Is something wrong?”
Heather nodded, tears starting in her eyes.
Emma stepped closer, taking Heather’s hands in her own. “What is it? Is Picket all right?”
“Yes,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “He’s fine. Can we go somewhere a bit quieter to talk?”
“Yes, dear. I just have to finish this list of ingredients. We have a lot of tonic to produce. We’re nearly done. Meet me...” She frowned, looking around for a quiet corner.
“Where’s Lord Rake?” Heather asked.
“I think he’s up behind the village and the caves, where the old votary camp was. He’s with his captains, preparing for the battle. He’s been scheming about how to defend this place for years. It looks like he’ll finally get a chance to test his plans.”
“I hope they work,” Heather said. “So much depends on it. I’ll be there, Emma dear.”
“I’ll see you up there in a bit,” Emma said. Shaken, she returned to her work.
Heather nodded and walked off. As she did, she heard whispers all around her. She noticed now that rabbits here had recognized her and that her presence had created a small stir in the hall. She thought of Emma. If only they all knew who had been with them already—who had been with them for years and years—and how special she was.